


Future Shadows

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 03:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: After the events of Lies Sleeping, Abigail is feeling unsettled. The person who steps up isn't the one she expected.





	Future Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenbucket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbucket/gifts).



> Contains spoilers for some general elements of Lies Sleeping and its aftermath, though nothing about the A plot or the Big Honking Event in the major series arc. Also spoilers for the short story bundled with Lies Sleeping in the UK - it tells us a bit more about Abigail's home life and her brother. 
> 
> To greenbucket - sorry this is more Nightingale than Peter. But I hope it pleases you anyway.

I’m fairly sure Nightingale thinks I’m Peter’s problem. Which is untrue, obviously. I’m not anyone’s problem, or if I am it’s my own. But I heard him and Beverley talking about me, while Peter was kidnapped, and it was all “What do we do with the poor little orphan girl” or similar crap that adults and gods pull with me when they think I’m not listening. They got over it pretty quick when Peter turned up again, and I thought stuff was going back to normal. 

(I kind of need the Folly to be normal. Don’t tell anyone. Stuff at the Folly gets better, which isn’t how it works in most places. But there’s no point letting it go to their heads, so keep it quiet, okay?)

But now Peter’s suspended, and I’ve got no intention of slinking away for however long _that_ lasts. He’s not here. Beverley isn’t hanging around either. More coppers are turning up here, like it’s their job to learn magic, not just some amazing discovery of ability and gift, like some of us got. I keep on going to my classes, which are more interesting now Nightingale has more pupils, I guess. I get less of his attention, as a teacher, but I like watching how differently the formae come off for different practitioners, so that’s educational. It’s not the same as hanging out with Peter, obviously. 

I hide in the tech cave sometimes. Peter’s equipment isn’t all here now, but he left enough for the rest of us to use that it’s not a total waste. I use the basement for practice. Molly sometimes wafts by the kitchen to make meals for a month, and then goes off to her new life with Foxglove, wherever and whatever that is when it’s not at the Folly. It feels like it was, sometimes.

It’s not like it’s _bad_. Bad is what happens in other places. Or, really near here though not _quite_ inside the Folly. People’s faces falling off is definitely bad, for example. But none of that can get me here. 

Except, it’s not the same. 

Except, it’s like all the people in my life leave. And I know it’s not their fault, but. You know. 

*

I never thought Nightingale would be the one to pick up on this. I was expecting Peter to come back sooner, or drop in just to see how we were doing. But apparently you can’t just do that when you’re suspended. And I did meet him in other places, obviously, but it’s not the same with family around. Not the same with Beverley around either, they’re always working out things about deities and waterways and stuff that, although obviously worthwhile in a bigger sense, isn’t really about me. 

I don’t resent it. He’s not my brother. 

Obviously he’s not. I don’t need another one of those. 

It’s Nightingale that asks, one day, if I’ve ever thought about using magic to cure Paul. And I trot out the obvious (you can’t fix natural processes that way, if you got a god to do it there would be a price you wouldn’t like, don’t mess with the fae etcetera). Which, obviously, makes him nod approvingly, because I’ve learned what needs to be said. But he also waits, till I say, “I do think about it. A lot. I’ve tried researching. I tried to work out what kind of combination of formae, what level I’d have to be. I wouldn’t ever do it, I’m not stupid. And also, I don’t know enough, and I can’t learn in time. Not before-“ I take a breath, because I hate talking about this. But I am talking about it . “Not before he dies. So there’s no point. And also, it definitely would kill me, and everyone here probably. But I still think about it sometimes.”

Nightingale looks a bit shellshocked when I’m done. Not surprising. I don’t talk that much. Not about things that aren’t Latin and magic. He knows I can do those. Not sure he knew I do stupid bottled-up emotions too. He makes us a cup of tea, with the good cups. Bone china, which is disgusting when you know what it is, but also really posh. It feels special. Like he’s going to tell me something important. Maybe he’ll finally let me level up and start practising properly. Or maybe he’s about to throw me out, because I don’t have the control. 

“I don’t know,” he starts. “Whether you’ve worked out what is wrong with me?”

My stomach does a lurch. I don’t like talking about diagnoses. Whatever they are, they won’t be good. But I do know, sort of, though it’s not something Peter and I ever speak about. 

“You’re getting younger,” I say. Out loud. Not just, _You’re old and you’re not getting older._

“It’s not easy,” he says. “Knowing how long one has.”

“How long is it?” I ask. Because people don’t usually, about Paul, but Mum and me, we know exactly. And I bet Nightingale does too. 

“Forty-six years now,” he says, which surprises me a bit. He’s pretty well preserved for forty-six. Except, obviously, he’s not forty-six. He’s, whatever, ninety-something, and he’s magically preserved. 

“Well,” I say. “That’s a long time.” It’s a lot longer than Paul has. It could be longer than I have, if I keep on hanging around the Folly. (You have to be realistic about that. I may treat the place as a refuge, in my mind, when I need it. But you can’t hide within the walls all the time. And the Folly attracts notice. It can’t help it.)

“It’s not the end that I worry about,” says Nightingale. “It’s what comes before. The… loss of everything.”

Oh. Yeah. I can see that. Reverse puberty. Losing strength and the power of speech. Ending up a tiny baby. (I don’t know what happens after that. I can’t see him going back to the womb, what with how long his mum must have been dead. I really hope not, anyway.) It’s pretty much like how people get old, though they don’t always believe it’s going to happen that way. 

I think aloud, “At some point, you’re going to be my age.” He shudders, which is rude. “I mean, the same age as me. We’ll be thirty together. And then… Then you can tell me what all the cool new teen stuff is, when I’m getting into gardening and mortgages and I dunno, _Corrie_.”

He smiles. And says, “I think about it all the time. What I could do. How I could stop it. Not yet. I’ve no objection to being middle-aged. And I’m looking forward to losing my sciatica in a few years. But after that- I think about not being able to bear it. About having my level of magic, and the self-control of early adolescence. No offence, Abigail. I was… rather less level-headed than you, at your age.” He swallows. “I’m afraid.”

We sit, while the tea goes cold in the thin, elegant cups made of dead bone. 

Eventually, I say, “I won’t let you do anything stupid.”

He laughs, and even though I think he means it kindly, it annoys me. “I mean it. When you’re sixteen and I’m forty-six, and I’m at the height of my powers and you’re all full of hormones and rage- I won’t let you do anything stupid. That’s a promise.”

He stops laughing. He picks up a cup, and his hand shakes a little. He doesn’t even grimace at the cold tea when he takes a sip. He’s covering. 

He says, “Thank you.”

And then, because this is the real world, and magic doesn’t just happen, he adds, “We’d better step up your training, then. I suggest some sessions before school, since your time is already rather occupied in the evenings.”

So I’m getting up at five a.m. three times a week. Training to save the world; a bit more specifically than I have been. It’s not fun anymore. But it is important. I’m all right with that.


End file.
